8

As they started into the auditorium on floor one of The Abraham Lincoln, Ian Duncan saw, trailing along behind Al Miller, the flat, scuttling shape of the Martian creature, the papoola. He stopped short. ‘You’re bringing that along?’

Al said, ‘You don’t understand. Don’t we have to win?’

After a pause, Ian said, ‘Not that way.’ He understood all right; the papoola would take on the audience as it had taken on passers-by. It would exert its extrasensory influence on them, coaxing out a favourable decision. So much for the ethics of a jalopy salesman, Ian realized. To Al, this seemed perfectly normal; if they couldn’t win by their jug-playing they would win through the papoola.

‘Aw,’ Al said, gesturing, ‘don’t be our own worst enemy. All we’re engaged in here is a little subliminal sales technique, such as they’ve been using for a century -- it’s an ancient, reputable method of swinging public opinion your away. I mean, let’s face it; we haven’t played the jug professionally in years.’ He touched the controls at his waist and the papoola hurried forward to catch up with them.

Again Al touched the controls. And in Ian’s mind a persuasive thought came, Why not? Everyone else does it.

With difficulty he said, ‘Get that thing off me, Al.’

Al shrugged. And the thought, which had invaded Ian’s mind from without, gradually withdrew. And yet, a residue remained. He was no longer sure of his position.

‘It’s nothing compared to what Nicole’s machinery can accomplish,’ Al pointed out, seeing the expression on his face. ‘One papoola here and there, and that planet-wide instrument of persuasion that Nicole has made out of TV there you have the real danger, Ian. The papoola is crude; you know you’re being worked on. Not so when you listen to Nicole. The pressure is so subtle and so complete -- ‘

‘I don’t know about that,’ Ian said. ‘I just know that unless we’re successful, unless we get to play at the White House, life as far as I’m concerned isn’t worth living. And nobody put that idea in my head. It’s just the way I feel; it’s my own idea, dammit.’ He held the door open, and Al passed on into the auditorium, carrying his jug by the handle. Ian followed, and a moment later the two of them were on the stage, facing the partially-filled hall.

‘Have you ever seen her?’ Al asked.

‘I see her all the time.’

‘I mean in reality. In person. So to speak, in the flesh.’

‘Of course not,’ Ian said. That was the entire point of their being successful, of getting to the White House. They would see her really, not just the TV image; it would no longer be a fantasy -- it would be true.

‘I saw her once,’ Al said. ‘I had just put the lot down, Jalopy Jungle Number Three, on a main business avenue in Shreveport, Louisiana. It was early in the morning, about eight o’clock. I saw official cars coming; naturally I thought it was the National Police -- I started to take off. But it wasn’t. It was a motorcade, with Nicole in it, going to dedicate a new apartment building, the largest yet.’

‘Yes,’ Ian said. ‘The Paul Bunyan.’ The football team from The Abraham Lincoln played annually against its team, and always lost. The Paul Bunyan had over ten thousand inhabitants, and all of them came from administrative-class backgrounds; it was an exclusive apartment building of men and women verging on becoming Ges. and it had incredibly high monthly payments required of each tenant.

‘You should have seen her,’ Al said thoughtfully as he sat facing the audience, his jug on his lap. ‘You know you always think that maybe in actual life they’re not -- she’s not, I mean -- as attractive as she shows up on the TV. I mean, they can control the image so completely. It’s synthetic in so many goddam respects. But -- Ian, she was much more attractive. The TV can’t catch the vitality, the glow, all the delicate colours of her skin. The luminosity of her hair.’ He shook his head, tapping the papoola with his foot; it had taken up a position beneath his chair, out of sight.

‘You know what it did to me, seeing her actually? It made me discontented. I was living pretty well; Luke pays me good salary. And I enjoy meeting the public. And I like operating this creature; it’s a job that requires a certain artistic skill, so to speak. But after seeing Nicole Thibodeaux, I never really accepted myself and my life again.’ He eyed Ian. ‘I guess that’s what you feel just seeing her on the TV.’

Ian nodded. He had begun to feel nervous now; in a few minutes they would be introduced. Their test had almost come.

‘So that’s why,’ Al continued, ‘I agreed to do this; get on the jug once more and have another try.’ Seeing Ian gripping his jug so tautly, Al said, ‘Shall I use the papoola or not? It’s up to you.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow, but his face showed understanding.

Ian said, ‘Use it.’

‘Okay,’ Al said, and reached his hand inside his coat.

Leisurely he stroked the controls. And, from beneath the chair, the papoola rolled forth, its antennae twitching drolly, its eyes crossing and uncrossing.

At once the audience became alert; people leaned forward to see, some of them chuckling with delight.

‘Look,’ a man said excitedly. ‘It’s the papoola!’

A woman rose to her feet to see more clearly, and Ian thought to himself, Everyone loves the papoola.

We’ll win whether we can play the jugs or not. And then what? Will meeting Nicole make us even more unhappy than we are? Is that what we’ll get out of this: hopeless, massive discontent? An ache, a longing which can never be satisfied in this world? It was too late to back out, now. The doors of the auditorium had shut and Don Tishman was rising from his chair, rapping for order. ‘Okay, folks,’ he said into his lapel microphone. ‘We’re going to have a little display of some talent right now, for everyone’s enjoyment. As you see on your programmes, first in order is a fine group, Duncan & Miller and Their Classical Jugs with a medley of Bach and Handel tunes that ought to set your feet tapping.’ He grinned crookedly at Ian and Al, as if saying, ‘How does that suit you as an intro?’

Al paid no attention; he manipulated his controls and gazed thoughtfully at the audience, then at last picked up his jug, glanced at Ian and then tapped his foot. ‘The Little Fugue in G Minor’ opened their medley, and Al began to blow on the jug, sending forth the lively theme. ‘Bum, bum, bum. Bum-bum-bum-bum bum bum de-bum. DE bum, DE bum, de de-de bum ... ‘ His cheeks puffed out red and swollen as he blew.

The papoola wandered across the stage, then lowered itself, by a series of gangly, foolish motions, into the first row of the audience. It had begun to go to work.

Al winked at Ian.

‘A Mr Strikerock to see you, doctor. Mr Charles Strikerock.’ Amanda Connors peeped into Dr Superb’s inner office, conscious of the load of the last few days and yet at the same time doing her job, too. Superb was aware of this.

Like a psychopomp, Amanda mediated between the gods and man; or rather in this case between the psychoanalyst and mere human beings. Sick ones at that.

‘All right.’ Superb rose to meet the new patient, thinking to himself, Is this the one? Am I here solely to treat -- or rather to fail to treat -- this particular man? He had wondered that about each new patient in turn.

It made him tired, this ceaseless need to speculate. His thinking, ever since the passage of the McPhearson Act, had become obsessive; it went around and around, getting nowhere.

A tall, worried-looking, somewhat bald man with glasses slowly entered the office, his hand extended. ‘I want to thank you for taking me so quickly, doctor.’ They shook. ‘You must have a terrific work schedule, these days.’ Chic Strikerock seated himself facing the desk.

‘To some extent,’ Superb murmured. But, as Pembroke had said, he could not turn down any new patients; on that condition he remained open. ‘You look like I feel,’ he said to Chic Strikerock. ‘Excessively trapped, over and above the norm. I guess we expect difficulties in living, but there ought to be some sort of limit.’

‘To be open about it,’ Chic Strikerock said, ‘I’m about ready to shuck everything, my job, and -- mistress ... ‘

He paused, his lips twisting. ‘And join the goddam Sons of Job.’ He shot a glance of anguish at Dr Superb. ‘That’s it.’

‘All right,’ Superb said, nodding in agreement. ‘But do you feel compelled to do this? Is it really a matter of choice?’

‘No, I have to do it -- I’ve got my back to the wall.’

Chic Strikerock pressed his shaking hands together, interlocking his long, thin fingers. ‘My life in society as a career man -- ‘

The phone on Superb’s desk winked, on off, on off. An urgent call which Amanda wanted him to take.

‘Excuse me a moment, Mr Strikerock,’ Dr Superb lifted the receiver. And, on the screen, the grotesquely-distorted miniature face of Richard Kongrosian formed, gaping as if the man were drowning. ‘Are you still in Franklin Aimes?’ Superb asked, at once.

‘Yes,’ Kongrosian’s voice came in his ears from the shortrange audio receiver. The patient, Strikerock, could not hear it; he fooled with a match, hunched over, clearly resenting the interruption. ‘I just now heard on TV that you still exist. Doctor, something terrible is happening to me. I’m becoming invisible. No one can see me. They only can smell me; I’m turning into nothing but a repellent odour!’

Jesus Christ, Dr Superb thought.

‘Can you see me?’ Kongrosian asked timidly. ‘On your screen?’

‘Yes I can,’ Superb said.

‘Amazing.’ Kongrosian seemed somewhat relieved. ‘Then at least electronic monitoring and scanning devices can pick me up. Maybe I can get by that way. What’s your opinion? Have you had cases like this in the past? Has the science of psychopathology run up against this before? Does it have a name?’

‘It has a name.’ Superb thought. Extreme crisis of the sense of identity. This is the appearance of overt psychosis; the compulsive-obsessive structure is crumbling. ‘I’ll come over to Franklin Aimes this afternoon,’ he told Kongrosian.

‘No, no,’ Kongrosian protested, his eyes bulging in frenzy. ‘I can’t permit that. In fact I shouldn’t even be talking to you by phone; it’s too dangerous. I’ll write you a letter, Goodbye.’

‘Wait,’ Superb said tersely.

The image remained on the screen. At least temporarily.

But, he knew, Kongrosian would not stay for long. The fugal pull was too great.

‘I have a patient,’ Superb said. ‘So there’s little I can do at this moment. What if -- ‘

‘You hate me,’ Kongrosian broke in. ‘Everyone does. Good god, I’ve got to be invisible! It’s the only way I protect my life!’

‘I would think there ought to be certain, advantages to being invisible,’ Superb said, ignoring what Kongrosian was saying. ‘Especially if you were interested in becoming a pruriently prying type of individual or a felon ... ‘

‘What kind of felon?’ Kongrosian’s attention had been snared.

Superb said, ‘I’ll discuss that when I see you. I think we should make this as Ge as humanly possible. It’s just too valuable a situation. Do you agree?’

‘I -- hadn’t thought of it that way.’

‘Do so,’ Superb said.

‘You envy me, do you, doctor?’

‘Very much so,’ Superb said. ‘As an analyst I’m obviously quite a pruriently prying person myself.’

‘Interesting.’ Kongrosian seemed much calmer, now. ‘For instance, it occurs to me now that I can get out of this damn hospital any time I want. I can roam the land, in fact. Except for the smell. No, you’re forgetting the smell, doctor. It’ll give me away. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re not taking all the facts into account.’ Kongrosian managed a brief, wavering smile. ‘I think the thing for me to do is bind myself over to the Attorney General, Buck Epstein, or if not that, go back to the Soviet Union. Maybe the Pavlov Institute can help me. Yes, I should try that again; I tried it once before, you know.’ A new thought came to him, then. ‘But they can’t treat me if they can’t see me. What a mess this is, Superb. Goddam.’

Maybe the best thing for you, Dr Superb thought, would be to do as Mr Strikerock is considering doing. Join Bertold Goltz and the infamous Sons of Job.

‘You know, doctor,’ Kongrosian went on, ‘sometimes I think the actual basis of my psychiatric problem is that I’m unconsciously in love with Nicole. What do you say to that? I’ve just figured that out; it just came to me, and it’s replete with clarity! The incest taboo or barrier or whatever it is has been called out by the direction my libido has taken, because of course Nicole is a mother figure. Am I correct?’

Dr Superb sighed.

Across from him Chic Strikerock fiddled miserably with his match, obviously growing more and more uncomfortable. The phone conversation had to be terminated. And right away.

But for the life of him, Superb could not figure out how to manage it.

Is this where I’m going to fail? He asked himself silently.

Is this what Pembroke, the NP man, using von Lessinger’s principle, foresaw? This man, Mr Charles Strikerock; I’m cheating him of his therapy -- he’s being robbed by the phone conversation, right here before me. And there is nothing I can do.

‘Nicole,’ Kongrosian was saying rapidly, ‘is the last true woman in our society. I know her, doctor; I’ve met her countless times, due to my illustrious career. I know who I’m talking about, don’t you think? And -- ‘

Dr Superb hung up the phone.

‘You hung up on him.’ Chic Strikerock said, becoming fully alert. He ceased fooling with the match. ‘Was that right to do?’ Then he shrugged. ‘I guess it’s your business, not mine.’ He tossed the match away.

‘That man,’ Superb said, ‘has a delusion that’s overpowering. He experiences Nicole Thibodeaux as real. Whereas actually she’s the most synthetic object in our milieu.’

Shocked, Chic Strikerock blinked. ‘W-what do you mean?’ Stammering, he half-rose to his feet, then dropped weakly back. ‘You’re fishing. Trying to probe my mind in the short time we’ve got. In any case, I’ve got a concrete problem, not a delusional one like he had, whoever he is. I’m living with my brother’s wife and using her presence to blackmail him; I’m forcing him to get me a job with Karp u. Sohnen. At least that’s the problem on the surface. But under that there’s something else, something deeper. I’m afraid of Julie, my brother’s wife or ex-wife, whatever she is.

And I know why. It has to do with Nicole. Maybe I’m like that man on your phone; only I am not in love with her, with Nicole -- I’m terrified of her and that’s why I’m scared of Julie, I guess in fact of all women. Does this make any sense, doctor?’

‘The image,’ Superb said, ‘of the Bad Mother. Overpowering and cosmic.’

‘It’s because of weak-fibred men like me that Nicole can rule,’ Chic said. ‘I’m the reason why we’ve got matriarchal society -- I’m like a six-year-old kid.’

‘You’re not unique. You realize that. In fact, it’s the national neurosis. The psychological fault of our times.’

Chic Strikerock said slowly, deliberately, ‘If I joined Bertold Goltz and the Sons of Job I could be a real man.

‘There’s something else you could do, if you want to break free of the mother, of Nicole. Emigrate. To Mars. Buy one of those flivvers, those Loony Luke jalopies, the next time one of his peripatetic jalopy jungles lands close enough for you to go aboard.’

Haltingly, with a strange expression, Chic Strikerock said, ‘My god. I never really seriously thought of that. It always seemed just -- frantic. Unreasonable. Done neurotically, in desperation.’

‘It would be better than joining Goltz, anyhow.’

‘What about Julie?’

Superb shrugged. ‘Take her along; why not? Is she good in bed?’

‘Please.’

‘Sorry.’

Chic Strikerock said, ‘I wonder what Loony Luke himself is like.’

‘A real bastard, I hear.’

‘Maybe that’s good; maybe that’s what I want. Need.’

Dr Superb said, ‘Time’s up for today. I hope I helped you, at least a little. Next time -- ‘

‘You helped; you gave me a very good idea. Or rather, you ratified a very good idea inside me. Maybe I will emigrate to Mars; hell, why should I wait until Maury Frauenzimmer fires me? I’ll quit right away and go locate a Loony Luke jalopy jungle. And if Julie wants to come, fine; and if not, also fine. She is good in bed, doctor, but not uniquely so. Not so good she can’t be replaced. So -- ‘ Chic Strikerock rose from his chair. ‘I may not be seeing you again, doctor.’ He held out his hand and they shook hands.

‘Drop me a postcard when you get to Mars,’ Dr Superb said.

Nodding, Strikerock said, ‘I’ll do that. Do you think you’ll still be doing business here at this address?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dr Superb said. Perhaps, he thought, you are my last patient. The more I think about it the more I’m sure you’re the one for whom I’ve been waiting. But only time would tell.

They walked together to the door of the office.

‘Anyhow,’ Chic Strikerock said, ‘I’m not as bad off as that guy you talked to on the phone. Who was that? I think I’ve seen him somewhere before, or a picture of him. Maybe on TV; yes, that was it. He’s some sort of a performer. You know, when you were talking to him I felt a sort of affinity towards him. As if we were both struggling together, both of us in deep, serious trouble and trying to get out some way, any way.’

‘Ummm,’ Dr Superb said as he opened the door.

‘You’re not going to tell me who he is; you’re not allowed to. I understand. Well I wish him luck, whoever he is.’

‘He needs it,’ Superb said. ‘Whoever he is. At this point.’

Caustically, Molly Dondoldo said, ‘How’d it feel, Nat, to be communicating with the great man himself? Because, of course, we all do agree; Bertold Goltz is the great man of our times.’

Nat Flieger shrugged. The auto-cab had now left the town of Jenner and was climbing a long grade, slower and slower, moving inland towards what appeared to be the rain forest proper, a huge damp mesa which seemed almost like something remaining from the Jurassic Period. A swamp of dinosaurs. Nat thought to himself. Not for humans.

‘I think Goltz made a convert,’ Jim Planck said, with a wink at Molly. He grinned at Nat.

Rain, fine and light, had begun to descend silently; the windshield wipers of the auto-cab came on, throbbing in a loud rhythm that was both irregular and annoying. The auto-cab now turned from the main road -- which was at least paved -- on to a side road of red rock; the cab bumped along, pitching and wallowing; inside its mechanism gears changed as the cab creakily adjusted to the new conditions.

It did not sound to Nat as if the auto-cab was doing a very satisfactory job of things. He had the feeling that it was going to stop any moment now, would give up the job and quit.

‘You know what I expect to see along here?’ Molly said, gazing up at the dense foliage on both sides of the narrow, ascending road. ‘I expect to see around the next bend a Loony Luke jalopy jungle, sitting there, parked waiting for us.’

‘Just for us?’ Jim Planck asked. ‘Why just for us?’

‘Because,’ Molly said, ‘we’re about washed up.’

Around the next bend of the road there was a structure; Nat peered at it, wondering what it was. Old, shabby, abandoned-looking ... he realized all at once that he was seeing a gas station. Left over from the days of internal combustion engine autos. He was thunderstruck.

‘An antique,’ Molly said. ‘A relic! How bizarre. Maybe we ought to stop and look at it. It’s historical, like an old fort or an old adobe mill; please, Nat, stop the damn cab.’

Nat punched buttons on the dashboard and the auto-cab, groaning in an anguish of friction and malconceived selfcues, came to a stop before the gasoline station.

Warily, Jim Planck opened the door and stepped out. He had his Japanese-made camera with him and now he snapped it open, squinting in the dull, fog-shrouded light.

The mild rain made his face shiny; water dripped down the lenses of his glasses and he removed them, stuffing them into his coat pocket. ‘I’ll take a couple shots of it,’ he said to Nat and Molly.

In a soft voice Molly said to Nat, ‘There’s someone in there. Don’t move or say anything. He’s watching us.’

Getting out of the cab Nat crossed the red rock road to the gasoline station. He saw the man inside rise and come to meet him; the door of the building swung open. A hunched man with a huge deformed jaw and teeth faced him; the man gestured and began to talk.

‘What’s he saying?’ Jim said to Nat, looking frightened.

The man, elderly, mumbled, ‘Hig, hig, hig.’ Or so it sounded to Nat. The man was trying to tell him something and yet he could not. He continued to try. And Nat, at last, thought he made out real words; he strained to understand, cupping his ear and waiting while the great-jawed old man mumbled on, anxiously, still gesturing.

‘He’s asking,’ Molly said to Nat, ‘if we brought his mail.’

Jim said, ‘It must be a custom around here, for cars coming up this road to bring the mail from town.’ To the elderly man with the massive jaw Jim said, ‘Sorry, we didn’t know. We don’t have your mail.’

Nodding, the man ceased his noises; he seemed resigned.

He clearly understood.

‘We’re looking for Richard Kongrosian,’ Nat said to the elderly man. ‘Are we on the right road?’

The man peered at him sideways, slyly. ‘Got any vegetables?’

‘Vegetables!’ Nat said.

‘I can eat vegetables pretty good.’ The elderly man winked at him and held out his hand, waiting, hoping.

‘Sorry,’ Nat said, disconcerted. He turned to Jim and Molly. ‘Vegetables,’ he said. ‘Could you understand him? That’s what he said, isn’t it?’

The elderly man mumbled, ‘I can’t eat meat. Wait.’ He fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a printed card which he passed to Nat. The card, dirty and shabby, could barely be read; Nat held it up to the light, squinting as he sought to make out the printed lettering.

FEED ME AND I WILL TELL YOU

ANYTHING YOU WANT TO HEAR.

COURTESY OF THE CHUPPERS ASSN.

‘I am a chupper,’ the elderly man said, and took the card suddenly back, returning it to his coat pocket.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Molly said to Nat, quietly.

A radiation-spawned race, Nat thought. The chuppers of Northern California. Their enclave lay here. He wondered how many of them there were. Ten? A thousand? And this was where Richard Kongrosian had chosen to live.

But perhaps Kongrosian was right. These were people, despite their malformity. They received mail, probably had little jobs or tasks, perhaps lived on county relief if they couldn’t work. They were bothering no one and certainly they were harmless. He felt discouraged at his own reaction -- his initial, instinctive aversion.

To the elderly chupper Nat said, ‘Would you like a coin?’

He held out a platinum five-dollar piece.

Nodding, the chupper accepted the coin. ‘Thankya.’

‘Does Kongrosian live along this road?’ Nat asked once again.

The chupper pointed.

‘Okay,’ Jim Planck said. ‘Let’s go. We’re heading the right way.’ He glanced urgently at Nat and Molly. ‘Come on.’

The three of them re-entered the auto-cab; Nat started it up and they drove on past the gasoline station and the old chupper, who stood expressionlessly, watching them go as if he had once more become inert, turned off like a simulacrum, a mere machine.

‘Wow,’ Molly said, and let out her breath raggedly. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘Expect more,’ Nat said briefly.

‘Goodness god in heaven,’ Molly said. ‘Kongrosian must be nutty as they say, living here. I wouldn’t live up here in this swamp for anything. I wish I hadn’t come. Let’s record him at the studio, okay? I feel like turning back.’

The auto-cab crawled along, passed under trailing vines, and then all at once they were facing the remains of a town.

A rotting sequence of wooden buildings with faded lettering and broken windows, and yet not abandoned. Here and there, along the weed-split sidewalks, Nat saw people; or rather, he thought, chuppers. Five or six of them making their way haltingly along, on their errands, whatever they might be; god knew what one did here. No phones, no mail. Maybe, he thought, Kongrosian finds it peaceful here.

There was no sound, except that of the mist-like rain falling.

Maybe once you get used to it -- but he did not think he could damn well ever get used to it. The factor of decay was too much at work, here. The absence of anything new, of any blossoming or growing. They can be chuppers if they want or if they have to be, he thought, but they ought to try harder, try to keep their settlement in repair. This is awful.

Like Molly he wished, now, that he hadn’t come.

‘I would think a long time,’ he said aloud, ‘before I’d plunk my life down in this area. But if you could do it you’d have accepted one of the most difficult aspects of life.’

‘And what’s that?’ Jim asked.

‘The supremacy of the past,’ Nat said. In this region the past ruled thoroughly, entirely. Their collective past: the war which had preceded their immediate era, its consequences. The ecological changes in everyone’s life. This was a museum, but alive. Movement, of a circular sort ... he shut his eyes. I wonder, he thought, if new chuppers are born. It must be genetically carried; I know it is. Or rather, he thought, I’m afraid it is. This is a waning sporting, and yet -- it continues on.

They have survived. And that’s good for the real environment, for the evolutionary process. That’s what does it, from the trilobite on. He felt sick.

And then he thought, I’ve seen this malformity before.

In pictures. In reconstructions. The reconstructions, the guesses, were quite good, evidently. Perhaps they had been corrected through von Lessinger’s equipment. Stooped bodies, massive jaw, inability to eat meat because of a lack of incisor teeth, great difficulty speaking. ‘Molly,’ he said aloud, ‘you know what these are, these chuppers?’

She nodded.

Jim Planck said Neanderthal. They’re not radiation freaks; they’re throwbacks.’

The auto-cab crept on, through the chuppers’ town.

Searching in its blind, mechanical way for the nearby home of the world-famous concert pianist Richard Kongrosian.

9

The Theodoras Nitz commercial squeaked, ‘In the presence of strangers do you feel you don’t quite exist? Do they seem not to notice you, as if you were invisible? On a bus or spaceship do you sometimes look around you and discover that no one, absolutely no one, recognizes you or cares about you and quite possibly may even -- ‘

With his carbon dioxide-powered pellet rifle, Maury Frauenzimmer carefully shot the Nitz commercial as it hung pressed against the far wall of his cluttered office. It had squeezed in during the night, had greeted him in the morning with its tinny harangue.

Broken, the commercial dropped to the floor. Maury crushed it with his solid, compacted weight and then returned the pellet rifle to its rack.

‘The mail,’ Chic Strikerock said. ‘Where’s today’s mail?’

He had been searching everywhere in the office since his arrival.

Maury noisily sipped coffee from his cup and said, ‘Look on top of the files. Under that rag we use to clean the keys of the typewriter.’ He bit into a breakfast doughnut, the sugarcovered type. He could see that Chic was behaving oddly and he wondered what it signified.

All at once Chic said, ‘Maury, I’ve got something I wrote out for you.’ He tossed a folded piece of paper on to the desk.

Without examining it Maury knew what it was.

‘I’m resigning,’ Chic said. He was pale.

‘Please don’t,’ Maury said. ‘Something will come along. I can keep the firm functioning.’ He did not open the letter; he left it where Chic had tossed it. ‘What would you do if you left here?’ Maury asked.

‘Emigrate to Mars.’

The intercom on the desk buzzed, and their secretary, Greta Trupe, said, ‘Mr Frauenzimmer, a Mr Garth McRae to see you with several other gentlemen, in a group.’

I wonder who they are, Maury wondered. ‘Don’t send them in yet,’ he said to Greta. ‘I’m in conference with Mr Strikerock.’

‘Go ahead and conduct your business,’ Chic said. ‘I’m going. I’ll leave my resignation letter there on your desk. Wish me luck.’

‘I wish you luck.’ Maury felt depressed and ill. He stared down at the desk until the door opened and closed and Chic had gone. What a hell of a way to begin the day, Maury thought. Picking up the letter he opened it, glanced at it, folded it once more. He pressed a button on the desk intercom and said, ‘Miss Trupe, send in -- the name you said, McRae or whatever it was. And his party.’

‘Yes, Mr Frauenzimmer.’

The door from the outer office opened and Maury drew himself up to face what he recognized at once to be government officials; two of them wore the grey of the National Police, and the leader of the group, evidently McRae, had the bearing of a major official of the executive branch; in other words a highly-placed Ge.

Rising clumsily to his feet, Maury extended his hand and said, ‘Gentlemen, what can I do for you?’

Shaking hands with him, McRae said, ‘You’re Frauenzimmer?’

‘Correct,’ Maury answered. His heart laboured and he had difficulty breathing. Were they going to close him down? As they had moved in on the Vienna School of psychiatrists? ‘What have I done?’ he asked, and heard his voice waver with apprehension. It was one trouble after another.

McRae smiled. ‘Nothing, so far. We’re here to initiate discussion of the placing of an order with your firm. However, this involves knowledge of a Ge level. May I rip out your intercom?’

‘P-pardon?’ Maury said, taken aback.

Nodding to the NP men, McRae stepped aside; the police moved in and swiftly made the intercom inoperative. They then inspected the walls, the furniture; they examined scrupulously every inch of the room and its equipment and then they nodded to McRae to continue.

McRae said, ‘All right. Frauenzimmer, we have specs with us for a sim we’d like constructed. Here.’ He held out a sealed envelope. ‘Go over this. We’ll wait.’

Opening the envelope, Maury studied its contents.

‘Can you do it?’ McRae asked, presently.

Raising his head, Maury said, ‘These specifications are for a der Alte.’

‘Correct.’ McRae nodded.

Then that’s it, Maury realized. That’s the piece of Ge knowledge; I’m now a Ge.

It’s happened in an instant. I’m on the inside. Too bad Chic left; poor goddam Chic, what bad timing, bad luck, on his part. If he had stayed five minutes longer ...

‘It’s been true for fifty years,’ McRae said.

They were drawing him in. Making him as much a part of this as possible now.

‘Good grief,’ Maury said. ‘I never guessed, watching it perform on TV, making its speeches. And here I build the damn things myself.’ He was staggered.

‘Karp did a good job,’ McRae said. ‘Especially on the current one, Rudi Kalbfleisch. We wondered if you’d guessed.’

‘Never,’ Maury said. ‘Not one time.’ Not in a million years.

‘Can you do it? Build it?’

‘Sure.’ Maury nodded.

‘When will you start?’

‘Right away.’

‘Good. You realize, naturally, that initially NP men will have to be kept here, to ensure security maintenance.’

‘Okay,’ Maury murmured. ‘If you have to, you have to. Listen, excuse me a moment.’ He edged past them, to the door and through, to the outer office; taken by surprise they permitted him to go. ‘Miss Trupe, did you see what way Mr Strikerock went?’ he asked.

‘He just drove off, Mr Frauenzimmer. Towards the autobahn I guess he went back home to The Abraham Lincoln where he lives.’

You poor guy, Maury thought. He shook his head.

The Chic Strikerock luck; still functioning. Now he began to feel elated.

This changes everything, he realized. I’m back in business; I’m caterer to the king -- or rather, I supply the White House. Same thing. Yes, it’s the same thing!

He returned to his office, where McRae and the others waited; they eyed him rather darkly. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was looking for my sales chief. I wanted to pull him back due to this. We won’t want to take any new orders for a while, so we can be free to concentrate on this.’ He hesitated. ‘As to the cost.’

‘We’ll sign a contract,’ Garth McRae said. ‘You’ll be guaranteed your costs plus forty per cent. The Rudi Kalbfleisch we acquired for a total net sum of one billion USEA dollars, plus of course the cost of perpetual maintenance and repair since the acquisition.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Maury agreed. ‘You wouldn’t want it to stop working in the middle of a speech.’ He tried to chuckle but found he could not.

‘How does that sound, roughly? Say between one bill and one-five.’

Maury said thickly, ‘Um, fine.’ His head felt as if it were about to roll off his shoulders and plunge to the floor.

Studying him, McRae said, ‘You’re a small firm, Frauenzimmer. You and I are both aware of that. Don’t get your hopes up. This will not make you a big firm, such as Karp und Sohnen Werke. However, it will guarantee your continued existence; obviously we’re prepared to underwrite you economically speaking for as long as is necessary.

We’ve gone exhaustively into your books -- does that petrify you? -- and we know that you’ve been operating in the red for months now.’

‘True,’ Maury said.

‘But your work is good,’ Garth McRae continued. ‘We’ve minutely inspected examples of it, both here and where it actually functions on Luna and Mars. You display authentic craftsmanship, more so, I feel, than the Karp Werke. That of course is why we’re here today instead of there with Anton and old Felix.’

‘I wondered,’ Maury said. So that was why the government had decided this time to let the contract to him, not Karp. He thought, did Karp build all the der Alte simulacra up to now? Good question. If this were so -- what a radical departure in government procurement policy this was! But better not to ask.

‘Have a cigar,’ Garth McRae said, holding an Optimo admiral out to him. ‘Extra mild. Pure Florida leaf.’

‘Thank you.’ Maury gratefully -- and fumblingly -- accepted the big greenish cigar. Both he and Garth McRae lit up, gazing at one another in what all at once had become calm, assured silence.

The news posted on The Abraham Lincoln’s communal bulletin board that Duncan & Millar had been chosen by the talent scout to perform at the White House astounded Edgar Stone; he read the announcement again and again, searching for the joker in it and wondering how the little nervous, cringing man had managed to do it.

There’s been cheating, Stone said to himself. Just as I passed him on his relpol tests ... he’s got somebody else to falsify a few results for him along the talent line. He himself had heard the jugs; he had been present at that programme, and Duncan & Miller, Classical Jugs, simply were not that good. They were good, admittedly ... but intuitively he knew that more was involved.

Deep inside him he experienced anger, a resentment that he had ever falsified Duncan’s test-score. I put him on the road to success, Stone realized; I saved him. And now he’s on his way to the White House, out of here entirely.

No wonder Ian Duncan had done so poorly on his relpol test. He had been busy practising on his jug, obviously; Duncan had no time for the commonplace realities which the rest of humanity had to cope with. It must be terrific to be an artist, Stone thought with bitterness. You’re exempt from all the rules and responsibilities; you can do just as you like.

He sure made a fool out of me, Stone said to himself.

Striding rapidly down the second-floor hall, Stone arrived at the office of the building skypilot; he rang the bell and the door opened, showing him the sight of the skypilot deep in work at his desk, his face wrinkled with fatigue. ‘Uh, father,’ Stone said, ‘I’d like to confess. Can you spare a few minutes? It’s very urgently on my mind, my sins I mean.’

Rubbing his forehead, Patrick Doyle nodded. ‘Jeez,’ he murmured. ‘It either rains or it pours; I’ve had ten presidents in today so far, using the confessionator. Go ahead.’

He pointed wearily to the alcove which opened on to his office. ‘Sit down and plug yourself in. I’ll be listening while I fill out these 4-10 forms from Berlin.’

Filled with righteous indignation, his hands trembling, Edgar Stone attached the electrodes of the confessionator to the correct spots of his scalp, and then, picking up the microphone, began to confess. The tapedrums of the machine turned slowly as he spoke. ‘Moved by a false type pity,’ he said, ‘I infracted a rule of this building. But mainly I am concerned not with the act itself but with the motives behind it; the act is merely the outgrowth of a false attitude towards my fellow residents. This individual, my neighbour Mr Ian Duncan, did poorly on his recent relpol test and I foresaw him being evicted from The Abraham Lincoln. I identified with him because subconsciously I regard myself as a failure, both as a resident of this building and as a man, so I falsified his score to indicate that he had passed. Obviously a new relpol test will have to be given to Mr Ian Duncan and the one which I scored will have to be marked void.’ He eyed the skypilot, but there was no evident reaction.

That will take care of Duncan and his Classic Jug, Stone said to himself.

By now the confessionator had analysed his confession; it popped a card out, and Doyle rose to his feet to receive it.

After a long, careful scrutiny he glanced keenly up. ‘Mr Stone,’ he said, ‘the view expressed here is that your confession is no confession. What do you really have on your mind? Go back and begin all over; you haven’t probed down deeply enough and brought up the genuine material And I suggest you start out by confessing that you misconfessed consciously and deliberately.’

‘No such thing,’ Stone said, or rather tried to say; his voice had gone out on him, numbed by dismay. ‘P-perhaps I could discuss this with you informally, sir. I did falsify Ian Duncan’s test score; that’s a fact. Now, perhaps my motives for doing it -- ‘

Doyle interrupted. ‘Aren’t you jealous of Duncan now? What with his success with the jug, White House-wards?’

There was silence.

‘This -- could be,’ Stone rasped in admission at last. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that by all rights Ian Duncan shouldn’t be living here; he should be evicted, my motives notwithstanding. Look it up in the Communal Apartment building Code. I know there’s a section covering a situation such as this.’

‘But you can’t get out of here,’ the skypilot persisted, ‘without confessing; you must satisfy the machine. You’re attempting to force eviction of a neighbour to satisfy your own emotional, psychological needs. Confess that, and then perhaps we can discuss the Code ruling as it pertains to Duncan.’

Stone groaned and once more attached the intricate system of electrodes to his scalp. ‘All right,’ he grated. ‘I hate Ian Duncan because he’s artistically gifted and I’m not. I’m willing to be examined by a twelve-resident jury of my neighbours to see what the penalty for my sin is; but I insist that Duncan be given another relpol test! I won’t give up on this -- he has no right to be dwelling here amongst us. It’s morally and legally wrong.’

‘At least you’re being honest, now,’ Doyle said.

‘Actually,’ Stone said, ‘I enjoy jug band playing; I liked their little act, the other night. But I have to behave in a manner which I believe to be in the public interest.’

The confessionator, it seemed to him, snorted in derision as it popped a second card. But perhaps it was only his imagination.

‘You’re just getting yourself deeper and deeper,’ Doyle said, reading the card. ‘Look at this.’ He grimly passed the card to Stone. ‘Your mind is a riot of confused, ambivalent motives. When was the last time you confessed?’

Flushing, Stone mumbled, ‘I think -- last August. Pape Jones was the skypilot then. Yes, it must have been August.’

Actually, it had been early July.

‘A lot of work will have to be done with you,’ Doyle said, lighting a cigarillo and leaning back in his chair.

The opening number on their White House programme they had decided after much discussion and hot argument, would be the Bach ‘Chaconne in D.’ Al had always liked it, despite the difficulties involved, the double-stopping and all. Even thinking about the Chaconne made Ian Duncan nervous.

He wished, now that it had at last been decided, that he had held out for the much simpler ‘Fifty Unaccompanied Cello Suite.’ But too late now. Al had sent the information to the White House A & R secretary, Mr Harold Slezak.

Al said, ‘Don’t for heaven’s sake worry; you’ve got the number two jug in this. Do you mind being second jug to me?’

‘No,’ Ian said. It was a relief, actually; Al had the far more difficult part.

Outside the perimeter of Jalopy Jungle Number three the papoola moved, crisscrossing the sidewalk in its gliding, quiet pursuit of a sales prospect. It was only ten in the morning, and no one worth collaring had come along, as yet.

Today the lot had been set up in the hilly section of Oakland, California, among the winding, tree-shrouded streets of the better residential section. Across from the lot, Ian could see The Joe Louis, a peculiarly-shaped but striking apartment building of a thousand units, mostly occupied by very well-to-do Negroes. The building, in the morning sun, appeared especially neat and cared for. A guard, with badge and gun, patrolled the entrance, stopping anyone who did not live there from entering.

‘Slezak has to okay the programme,’ Al reminded him.

‘Maybe Nicole won’t want to hear the Chaconne; she’s got very specialized tastes and they’re changing all the time.’

In his mind Ian saw Nicole propped up in her enormous bed, in her pink, frilly robe, her breakfast on a tray beside her as she scanned the programme schedules presented to her for her approval. Already she’s heard about us, he thought.

She knows of our existence.

In that case, we really do exist. Like a child that has to have its mother watching what it does, we’re brought into being, validated consensually, by Nicole’s gaze.

And when she takes her eye off us, he thought, then what? What happens to us afterwards? Do we disintegrate, sink back into oblivion? Back, he thought, into random, unformed atoms. Where we came from, the world of nonbeing, The world we’ve been in all our lives, up until now.

‘And,’ Al said, ‘she may ask us for an encore. She may even request a particular favourite. I’ve researched it, and it seems she sometimes asks to hear Schumann’s “The Happy Farmer.” Got that in mind? We’d better work “The Happy Farmer” up, just in case.’ He blew a few toots on his jug, thoughtfully.

‘I can’t do it,’ Ian said abruptly. ‘I can’t go on. It means too much to me. Something will go wrong; we won’t please her and they’ll boot us out. And we’ll never be able to forget.’

‘Look,’ Al began. ‘We have the papoola. And that gives us -- ‘ He broke off. A tall, stoop-shouldered, elderly man in an expensive natural fibre-grey suit was coming up the sidewalk. ‘My god, it’s Luke himself,’ Al said. He looked frightened. ‘I’ve only seen him twice before in my life. Something must be wrong.’

‘Better reel in the papoola,’ Ian said. The papoola had begun to move towards Loony Luke.

With a bewildered expression on his face Al said, ‘I can’t.’

He fiddled desperately with the controls at his waist. ‘It won’t respond.’

The papoola reached Luke, and Luke bent down, picked it up and continued on towards the lot, the papoola under his arm.

‘He’s taken precedence over me,’ Al said. He looked at Ian numbly.

The door of the office opened and Loony Luke entered.

‘We got a report that you’ve been using this in your own time, for purposes of your own,’ he said to Al, his voice low and gravelly. ‘You were told not to do that; the papoola belongs to the lot, not to the operator.’

Al said, ‘Aw, come on, Luke -- ‘

‘You ought to be fired,’ Luke said, ‘but you’re a good salesman so I’ll keep you on. Meanwhile, you’ll have to make your quota without help.’ Tightening his grip on the papoola, he started out. ‘My time is valuable; I have to go.’

He saw Al’s jug. ‘That’s not a musical instrument; it’s a thing to put whisky in.’

Al said, ‘Listen, Luke, this is publicity. Performing for Nicole means that the network of jalopy jungles will gain prestige. Got it?’

‘I don’t want prestige,’ Luke said, pausing at the door. ‘There’s no catering to Nicole Thibodeaux by me; let her run her society the way she wants and I’ll run the jungles the way I want. She leaves me alone and I’ll leave her alone and that’s fine with me. Don’t mess it up. Tell Slezak you can’t appear and forget about it; no grown man in his right senses would be hooting into an empty bottle anyhow.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Al said. ‘Art can be found in the most mundane daily walks of life, like in these jugs for instance.’

Luke, picking his teeth with a silver toothpick, said, ‘Now you don’t have a papoola to soften the First Family up for you. Better think about that. Do you really expect to make it without the papoola?’ He grinned.

After a pause Al said to Ian, ‘He’s right. The papoola did it for us. But -- hell, let’s go on anyhow.’

‘You’ve got guts,’ Luke said. ‘But no sense. Still, I have to admire you. I can see why you’ve been a top-notch salesman for the organization; you don’t give up. Take the papoola the night you perform at the White House and then return it to me the next morning.’ He tossed the round, buglike creature to Al; grabbing it, Al hugged it against his chest like a big pillow. ‘Maybe it would be good publicity for the jungles,’ Luke said meditatively. ‘But I know this. Nicole doesn’t like us. Too many people have slipped out of her hands by means of us; we’re a leak in mama’s structure and mama knows it.’ Again he grinned, showing gold teeth.

Al said, ‘Thanks, Luke.’

‘But I’ll operate the papoola,’ Luke said. ‘By remote. I’m a little more skilled than you; after all, I built them.’

‘Sure,’ Al said. ‘I’ll have my hands full playing anyhow.’

‘Yes,’ Luke said, ‘you’ll need both hands for that bottle.’

Something in Luke’s tone made Ian Duncan uneasy.

What’s he up to? he wondered. But in any case he and his buddy Al Miller had no choice; they had to have the papoola working for them. And no doubt Luke could do a good job operating it; he had already proved his superiority over Al, just now, and as Luke said, Al would be busy blowing away on his jug. But still ...

‘Loony Luke,’ Ian said, ‘have you ever met Nicole?’ It was a sudden thought on his part, an intuition.

‘Sure,’ Luke said steadily. ‘Years ago. I had some hand puppets; my dad and I travelled around putting on puppet shows. We finally played the White House.’

‘What happened there?’ Ian asked.

Luke, after a pause, said, ‘She -- didn’t care for us. Said something about our puppets being indecent.’

And you hate her, Ian realized. You never forgave her.

‘Were they?’ he asked Luke.

‘No,’ Luke answered. ‘True, one act was a strip show; we had follies girl puppets. But nobody ever objected before. My dad took it hard but it didn’t bother me.’ His face was impassive.

Al said, ‘Was Nicole the First Lady that far back?’

‘Oh yes,’ Luke said. ‘She’s been in office for seventy-three years; didn’t you know that?’

‘It isn’t possible,’ both Al and Ian said, almost together.

‘Sure it is,’ Luke said. ‘She’s a really old woman, now. Must be. A grandmother. But she still looks good, I guess. You’ll know when you see her.’

Stunned, Ian said, ‘On TV -- ‘

‘Oh yeah,’ Luke agreed. ‘On TV she looks around twenty. But go to the history books ... except of course they’re banned to everyone except Ges. I mean the real history texts; not the ones they give you for studying for those relpol tests. Once you look it up you can figure it out for yourself. The facts are all there. Buried down somewhere.’

The facts, Ian realized, mean nothing when you can see with your own eyes she’s as young-looking as ever. And we see that every day.

Luke you’re lying, he thought. We know it; we all know it.

My buddy Al saw her; Al would have said, if she was really like that. You hate her; that’s your motive. Shaken, he turned his back to Luke; not wanting to have anything more to do with the man now. Seventy-three years in office -- that would make Nicole almost ninety, now. He shuddered at the idea; he blocked it out of his thoughts. Or at least he tried to.

‘Good luck, boys,’ Luke said, chewing on his toothpick.

It’s too bad, Al Miller thought, that the government cracked down on those psychoanalysts. He glanced across his office at his buddy Ian Duncan. Because you’re in a bad way, Al realized. But actually there was one of them left; he had heard about it over TV. Dr Superb or something like that.

‘Ian,’ he said. ‘You need help. You’re not going to be able to blow that jug for Nicole, not the way you’re feeling.’

‘I’ll be okay,’ Ian said shortly.

Al said, ‘Ever been to a psychiatrist?’

‘Couple times. Long ago.’

‘You think they’re better than chemical therapy?’

‘Anything’s better than chemical therapy.’

If he’s the only psychoanalyst still practising in the entire USEA, Al thought, he’s no doubt swamped. Couldn’t possibly take on any new patients.

However, for the heck of it, he looked up the number, picked up his phone and dialled.

‘Who’re you calling?’ Ian asked suspiciously.

‘Dr Superb. The last of the -- ‘

‘I know. Who’s it for? You? Me?’

‘Both of us maybe,’ Al said.

‘But primarily for me.’

Al did not answer. A girl’s image -- she had lovely, enlarged, high-rise breasts -- had formed on the screen and in his ear her voice said, ‘Dr Superb’s office.’

‘Is the doctor accepting any new patients at this time?’ Al asked, scrutinizing her image fixedly.

‘Yes he is,’ the girl said in a vigorous, firm tone of voice.

‘Terrific!’ Al said, pleased and surprised. ‘I and my partner would like to come in, whenever it’s possible; the sooner the better.’ He gave her his name and Ian’s.

‘What about Friday at nine-thirty in the morning?’ the girl asked.

‘It’s a deal,’ Al said. ‘Thanks a lot, miss. Ma’am.’ He hung up violently. ‘We got it!” he said to Ian. ‘Now we can thrash our worries out with someone qualified to render a professional assist. You know, talk about mother image -- did you see that girl? Because -- ‘

‘You can go,’ Ian said. ‘I’m not.’

Al said quietly, ‘If you don’t go, I’m not playing my jug at the White House. So you better go.’

Ian stared at him.

‘I mean it,’ Al said.

There was a long, awkward silence.

‘I’ll go,’ Ian said, at last. ‘But once only. No more after this Friday.’

‘That’s up to the doctor.’

‘Listen,’ Ian said. ‘If Nicole Thibodeaux is ninety years old no psychotherapy is going to help me.’

‘You’re that much involved emotionally with her? A woman you’ve never seen? That’s schizophrenic. Because the fact is you’re involved with -- ‘ Al gestured. ‘An illusion. Something synthetic, unreal.’

‘What’s unreal and what’s real? To me she’s more real than anything else; than you, even. Even than myself, my own life.’

‘Holy smoke,’ Al said. He was impressed. ‘Well, at least you have something to live for.’

‘Right,’ Ian said, and nodded.

‘We’ll see what Superb says on Friday,’ Al said. ‘We’ll ask him just how schizophrenic -- if at all -- it is.’ He shrugged.

‘Maybe I’m wrong; maybe it isn’t.’ Maybe it’s Luke and I who are the insane ones, he thought. To him, Luke for example, was much more real, much more an influencing factor, than Nicole Thibodeaux. But then, he had seen Nicole in the flesh, and Ian had not. That made all the difference, although he was not sure quite why.

He picked up his jug and began practising once more.

And, after a pause, Ian Duncan did the same, joining in.

Together, they puffed away.

10

The Army Major, thin, small and erect, said, ‘Frau Thibodeaux, this is the Reichsmarschall, Herr Hermann Goering.’

The heavily built man, wearing -- incredibly -- a toga-style white robe and holding on a leather leash what appeared to be a lion cub, stepped forward and said in German, ‘I am glad to meet you, Mrs Thibodeaux.’

‘Reichsmarschall,’ Nicole said, ‘do you know where you are at this moment?’

‘Yes,’ Goering nodded. To the lion cub he said severely, ‘Sei ruhig, Marsi.’ He fussed with the cub, calming it.

All this Bertold Goltz watched. He had gone slightly ahead in his time, by use of his own von Lessinger equipment; he had become impatient waiting for Nicole to arrange the transfer of Goering. Here it was now; or rather, here it would be in seven more hours.

It was easy, possessing von Lessinger equipment, to penetrate the White House despite its NP guards; Goltz had merely gone far back into the past, before the White House existed, and then had returned to this near future. He had done such a thing several times already and would do it again; he knew that because he had run on to his future self, caught in the act. It amused him, that meeting; not only was he able to observe Nicole freely but he could also observe his past and future selves -- the future, at least, in terms of possibility.

Of potentiality, rather than actuality. The vista spread out for his inspection of the perhaps.

They will make a deal, Goltz decided. Nicole and Goering; the Reichsmarschall, taken first from 1941 and then from 1944, will be shown the ruined Germany of 1945, will see the end in store for the Nazis -- will see himself in the dock at Nuremberg, and, at last, will view his own suicide by a poison carried in a rectal suppository. This will rather influence him, to say the least. A deal will not be difficult to hatch out; the Nazis, even normally, were experts at deals.

A few miracle weapons from the future, appearing at the end of World War Two, and the Age of Barbarism would last -- not thirteen years -- but, as Hitler had sworn, a thousand. A death ray, laser beams, hydrogen bombs in the 100 megaton range ... would assist the armed forces of the Third Reich considerably. Plus, of course, the A-1 and the A-2; or, as the Allies had called them, the V-1 and V-2. Now the Nazis would have an A-3, A-4, and so on, without limit, if necessary.

Goltz frowned. For, in addition to this, other possibilities, murky and dense, spread out parallel with an almost occult darkness surrounding them. What did these less-likely futures consist of? Dangerous, and yet surely better than the clear one, the track laden with miracle weapons. ‘You, there,’ a White House NP man called, suddenly catching sight of Goltz, as he stood partially concealed in the corner of the Bog Orchid Room. The guard instantly whipped out a pistol and took aim.

The conference between Thibodeaux, Goering, and four military advisors, abruptly terminated. All turned towards Goltz and the NP man.

‘Frau,’ Goltz said, a parody of Goering’s greeting. He stepped forth, confidently; after all, he previewed this with his von Lessinger gear. ‘You know who I am. The spectre at the feast.’ He chuckled.

But of course the White House possessed von Lessinger equipment, too; they had anticipated this, just as he had.

This exposure had in it the element of fatality. It could not be avoided; no alternate tracks branched off, here ... not that Goltz wished for them. Long ago he had learned that ultimately there was no future for him in anonymity.

‘Some other time, Goltz,’ Nicole said with distaste.

‘Now,’ Goltz said, walking towards her.

The NP man glanced at her for instructions; he appeared highly confused.

Nicole waved him irritably.

‘Who is this?’ The Reichsmarschall inquired, studying Goltz.

Goltz said, ‘Just a poor Jew. Not like Emil Stark, who I notice is not here, Nicole, despite your promise. There are many poor Jews, Reichsmarschall. In your time and ours both. I have nothing of cultural or economic value which you can confiscate; no art work, no Geld. Sorry.’ He seated himself at the conference table and poured a glass of ice water from the pitcher at hand.

‘Is your pet, Marsi, feral? Ja oder nein?’

‘No,’ Goering said, petting the cub expertly, He had sat down, placing the cub on the table before him; it curled up obediently, its eyes half-closed.

‘My presence,’ Goltz said, ‘my Jewish presence, is unwanted. I wonder why Emil Stark isn’t here. Why not. Nicole?’ He eyed her. ‘Did you fear to offend the Reichsmarschall? Strange ... after all, Himmler dealt with Jews in Hungary, through Eichmann. And there is a Jewish general in the Reichsmarschall’s Luftwaffe, a certain General Milch. True, Herr Reichmarschall?’ He turned to Goering.Looking peeved, Goering said, ‘I wouldn’t know about Milch; he’s a good man -I can say that much.’

‘You see,’ Bertold Goltz said to Nicole, ‘Herr Goering is accustomed to dealing with Juden. Right, Herr Goering? You don’t have to answer; I’ve observed it for myself.’

Goering glared at him sourly.

‘Now this deal -- ‘ Goltz began.

‘Bertold,’ Nicole interrupted savagely, ‘get out of here! I’ve let your street fighters roam at will -- I’ll have them rounded up if you interfere with this. You know what my objective is here. You of all people ought to approve.’

‘But I don’t,’ Goltz said.

One of the Army advisors snapped, ‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ Goltz said, ‘once the Nazis have won World War Two by your aid, they will massacre the Jews anyhow.

And not just those in Europe and White Russia but in England and the United States and Latin America as well.’ He spoke calmly. After all, he had seen it, had explored, by means of his von Lessinger equipment, several of these dreadful alternative futures. ‘Remember, the objective in the war for the Nazis was the extermination of World Jewry; it was not merely a byproduct.’

There was silence.

To the NP man, Nicole said, ‘Get him now.’

The NP man, pointing his gun, fired at Goltz.

Goltz, timing it perfectly, at the same instant the gun was pointed at him made contact with the von Lessinger effect surrounding him. The scene, with its participants, blurred and was lost. He remained in the same room, the Bog Orchid, but the people were gone. He was alone, yet now in the midst of the elusive ghosts of the future, summoned by the device.

He saw, in deranged procession, the psychokinetic Richard Kongrosian involved in weird situations, first with his rituals of cleansing and then with Wilder Pembroke; the Commissioner of the NP had done something, but Goltz could not make out what. And then he saw himself, first holding vast authority and then abruptly, unaccountably, dead. Nicole, too, drifted past his range of vision, altered in various new ways which he could not comprehend. Death seemed to exist everywhere in the future, a potential awaiting everyone it seemed. What did this signify? An hallucinosis? The collapse of certitude appeared to lead directly to Richard Kongrosian. It was an effect of the psychokinetic power, a distortion of fabric of the future produced by the man’s parapsychological talent.

If Kongrosian knew, Goltz thought. Strength of this sort a mystery even to the owner. Kongrosian, tangled in the maze of his mental illness, virtually unable to function and yet still imposing, still looming vastly on the landscape of the tomorrows, of our days ahead. If I could only penetrate this, Goltz realized. This man who is -- will become -- the cardinal enigma for all of us ... then I would have it. The future would no longer consist of imperfect shades, blended in configurations which customarily reason -- mine, anyhow -- can never manage to untangle.

In his room at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital, Richard Kongrosian declared aloud, ‘I am totally invisible now.’ He held up his hand and arm, saw nothing. ‘It’s come,’ he added. And he did not hear his voice; that, too, was imperceptible. ‘What should I do now?’ he asked the four walls of his room.

There was no response. Kongrosian was completely alone; he no longer had any contact with other life.

I’ve got to get out of here, he decided. Seek help -- I’m not getting any help, here; they’ve been unable to arrest the illness-process.

I’ll go back to Jenner.

See my son.

There was no point in seeking out Dr Superb or any other medical man, chemically-oriented or not. The period of seeking therapy was over. And now -- a new period. What did it consist of? He did not know, yet. In time he would know, however. Assuming that he lived through it. And how could he do that when, for all intents, he was already dead? ‘That’s it, he said to himself. I’ve died. And yet I’m still alive.

It was a mystery. He did not understand it.

Perhaps, he thought, what I must seek then is a rebirth.

Effortlessly -- after all, no one could see him -- he made his way from his room and down the corridor to the stairs, down the stairs and out the side entrance of Franklin Aimes Hospital. Presently he was walking along the sidewalk of an unfamiliar street, somewhere in a hilly section of San Francisco, surrounded by vastly high apartment buildings, many of them dating from before World War Three.

By avoiding stepping on any cracks of cement pavement he cancelled, for the time being, the trail of noxious odour which otherwise he would have left in his wake.

I must be getting better, he decided. I’ve found at least a temporary ritual of purification to balance my phobic body odour. And except for the fact that he was still invisible. How am I going to play the piano this way? he asked himself. This means, evidently, the end of my career.

And then all at once he remembered Merrill Judd, the chemist with A.G. Chemie. Judd was supposed to be going to help me, he recalled; I completely forgot about it, in the excitement of becoming invisible.

I can go by auto-cab to A.G. Chemie.

He hailed an auto-cab which was passing, but it failed to see him. Disappointed, he watched it go on by. I thought I was still visible to purely electronic scanning devices, he thought. Evidently not, however.

Can I walk to an A.G. Chemie branch? he asked himself.

I guess I’ll have to. Because of course I can’t board the ordinary pubtrans; it wouldn’t be fair to the others.

I’ve got quite a task for Judd, he realized. Not only must the man eradicate my phobic body odour but he has to make me invisible once more. Discouragement filled Kongrosian’s mind. They can’t do it, he realized. It’s too much; it’s hopeless. I’ll just have to keep on trying for rebirth.

When I see Judd I’ll ask him about it, see what A.G. Chemie can do for me in that line. After all, next to Karp they’re the most powerful economic syndrome in the entire USEA. I’d have to go back to the USSR to find a greater economic entity.

A.G. Chemie is so proud of its chemical therapy; let’s see if they have a drug which promotes rebirth.

He was walking along, thinking those thoughts while avoiding stepping on the cracks in the pavement, when all at once he realized that something lay in his path. An animal, flat, platter-shaped, orange with black spots, its antennae waving. And, at the same instant, a thought formed in his brain.

‘Rebirth ... yes, a new life. Begin over, on another world.’

Mars!

Kongrosian halted and said, ‘You’re right.’ It was a papoola, there on the sidewalk before him. He looked around and saw, sure enough, a jalopy jungle parked not far off, the shiny jalopies sparkling in the sunlight. There, in the centre of the lot, in a little office building, sat the operator of the lot, and Kongrosian moved step by step towards him. The papoola followed, and as it followed it communicated with him.

‘Forget A.G. Chemie ... they can’t do anything for you.’

Right, Kongrosian thought. It’s entirely too late for that.

If Judd had come up with something right away it would have been different. But now. And then he realized something.

The papoola could see him.

Or at least it could sense him with some organ or apperception, in some dimension or other. And -- it did not object to his smell.

‘Not at all,’ the papoola was telling him. ‘You smell perfectly wonderful to me. I have no complaints at all, absolutely none.’

Kongrosian halting, said, ‘Would it be that way on Mars? They could see me -- or at least perceive me -- and I wouldn’t offend them?’

‘There are no Theodoras Nitz commercials on Mars,’ the papoola’s thoughts came to him, forming in his eager mind.

‘You will gradually shed your contamination, there. In that pure, virgin environment. Enter the office, Mr Kongrosian, and speak to Mr Miller, our sales representative. He is eager to serve you. He exists to serve you.’

‘Yes,’ Kongrosian said, and opened the door of the office.

There was, ahead of him, another customer waiting; the salesman was filling out a contract form. A thin, tall, balding customer who looked ill-at-ease and restless; he glanced towards Kongrosian and then moved a step away.

The smell had offended him.

‘Forgive me,’ Kongrosian mumbled in apology.

‘Now, Mr Strikerock,’ the salesman was saying to this previous customer, ‘if you’ll sign here -- ‘ He turned the form around and held up a fountain pen.

The customer, in a spasm of muscular activity, signed, then stepped back, visibly shaking from the tension.

‘It’s a big moment,’ he said to Kongrosian. ‘When you decide to do this. I’d never have had the courage on my own, but my psychiatrist suggested it. Said it was the best alternative for me.’

‘Who’s your psychiatrist?’ Kongrosian said, naturally interested.

‘There’s only one. These days. Dr Egon Superb.’

‘He’s mine, too,’ Kongrosian exclaimed. ‘A darn good man; I was just talking to him.’

The customer now studied Kongrosian’s face intently.

He said then very painstakingly and slowly, ‘You’re the man on the telephone. You called Dr Superb; I was in his office.’

The salesman for the jalopy jungle spoke up. ‘Mr Strikerock, if you want to step outside with me I’ll go over the handling instructions with you, just to be on the safe side. And you can pick out whichever jalopy you want.’ To Kongrosian he said, ‘I’ll be able to help you in just a moment Please be patient, if you will.’

Kongrosian stammered, ‘C-can you see me?’

‘I can see everybody,’ the salesman said. ‘Given tune enough.’ And he left the office with Strikerock, then.

‘Calm yourself,’ the papoola said, within Kongrosian’s mind; it had remained in the office, evidently to keep him company. ‘All is well. Mr Miller will take good care of you and very, very sooooon.’ It crooned to him, lulling him.

‘Alll is welllll,’ it intoned.

Suddenly the customer, Mr Strikerock, re-entered the office. To Kongrosian he said, ‘Now I remember who you are! You’re the famous concert pianist who’s always playing for Nicole at the White House; you’re Richard Kongrosian.’

‘Yes,’ Kongrosian admitted, pleased to be recognized.

Just to be on the safe side, however, he moved carefully back from Strikerock, so as not to offend him. ‘I’m amazed,’ he said, ‘that you can see me; just recently I’ve become invisible ... in fact that’s what I was discussing with Egon Superb on the phone. Currently, I’m seeking rebirth. That’s why I’m going to emigrate; there’s no hope for me here on Earth, obviously.’

‘I know how you feel,’ Strikerock said, nodding. ‘Just recently I quit my job; I’ve got no ties to anyone here, any more, not to my brother nor to -- ‘ He paused, his face dark.

‘To anyone. I’m leaving alone, with no one.’

‘Listen,’ Kongrosian said, on impulse, ‘Why don’t we emigrate together? Or -- does my phobic body odours offend you too much?’

Strikerock did not seem to know what he meant. ‘Emigrate together? You mean go in for a land-stake as partners?’

‘I have plenty of money,’ Kongrosian said. ‘From my concert appearances; I can finance both of us easily.’ Money was certainly the least of his worries. And maybe he could help this Mr Strikerock, who, after all, had just quit his job.

‘Maybe we could work something out,’ Strikerock said thoughtfully, nodding slowly up and down. ‘It’s going to be lonely as hell on Mars; we wouldn’t have any neighbours except perhaps simulacra. And I’ve seen enough of them as it is to last me the rest of my life.’

The salesman, Mr Miller, returned to the office, looking a trifle perturbed.

‘We need only one jalopy between us,’ Strikerock said to him. ‘Kongrosian and I are emigrating together, as partners.’

Shrugging philosophically, Mr Miller said, ‘I’ll show you two a slightly larger model, then. A family-sized model.’ He held the door of the office open and Kongrosian and Chic Strikerock stepped out on to the lot. ‘You two know each other?’ he asked.

‘Not before now,’ Strikerock said. ‘But we both have the same problem; we’re invisible, here on Earth. So to speak.’

‘That’s right,’ Kongrosian put in. I’ve become totally invisible to the human eye; obviously it’s time to emigrate.’

‘Yes, if that’s the case I would say so,’ Mr Miller agreed tartly.

The man on the telephone said, ‘My name is Merrill Judd, of A.G. Chemie. I’m sorry to bother you -- ‘

‘Go ahead,’ Janet Raimer said, seating herself at her neat, small idiosyncratically-arranged desk. She nodded to her secretary, who at once shut the office door, cutting out the noises from the White House corridor outside. ‘You say this has to do with Richard Kongrosian.’

‘That’s right.’ On the screen, Merrill Judd’s miniature face image nodded. ‘And for that reason it occurred to me to contact you, because of the close ties between Kongrosian and the White House. It seemed reasonable to me that you’d want to know. I tried, about half an hour ago, to visit Kongrosian at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco. He was gone. The staff there couldn’t locate him.’

‘I see,’ Janet Raimer said.

‘Evidently he’s quite ill. From what he said to me -- ‘

‘Yes,’ Janet said, ‘he’s quite ill. Do you have any other information for us? If not, I’d like to get started on this right away.’

The A.G. Chemie psych-chemist had no other information. He rang off, and Janet dialled an inside line, trying several White House stations until at last she managed to reach her nominal superior, Harold Slezak.

‘Kongrosian has left the hospital and vanished. God knows where he may have gone, possibly back to Jenner we should check that, of course. Frankly, I think the NP should be brought in; Kongrosian is vital.’

‘ “Vital,” ‘ Slezak echoed, wrinkling his nose. ‘Well, let’s say rather that we like him. We’d prefer not to have to make do without him. I’ll obtain Nicole’s permission to involve the police; I think you’re right in your estimate of the situation.’ Slezak , with no amities, rang off then. Janet hung up the phone.

She had done all she could do; it was now out of her hands.

The next thing she knew, an NP man was in her office, notebook in hand. Wilder Pembroke -- she had run into him many times when he held lesser positions -- seated himself across from her and began to take notes. ‘I’ve already checked with Franklin Aimes.’ The Commissioner regarded her thoughtfully. ‘It seems that Kongrosian made a phone call to Dr Egon Superb -- you know who he is: the sole remaining psychoanalyst. He left not much after that. To your knowledge, was Kongrosian seeing Superb?’

‘Yes of course,’ Janet said. ‘For some time.’

‘Where do you think he would go?’

‘Except for Jenner -- ‘

‘He’s not there. We’ve got somebody in the area, now.’

‘Then I don’t know, Ask Superb.’

‘We’re doing that,’ Pembroke said.

She laughed. ‘Maybe he’s joined Bertold Goltz.’

The Commissioner, not amused, his flat face hard, said, ‘We’ll look into that of course. And there’s always the possibility he ran into one of those Loony Luke lots, those fly-by-night jalopy jungles. They seem somehow to show up at the appropriate time and place. God knows how they manage it but they do, somehow. Of all the possibilities -- ‘ Pembroke was speaking half to himself; he seemed quite agitated. ‘As far as I’m concerned that’s the very worst.’

‘Kongrosian would never go to Mars,’ Janet said.

‘There’s no market for his talents, there; they don’t need concert pianists. And underneath his eccentric, artistic exterior, Richard is shrewd. He would be aware of that.’

‘Maybe he’s given up playing,’ Pembroke said. ‘For something better.’

‘I wonder what sort of farmer a psychokinetic would make.’

Pembroke said, ‘Maybe that’s exactly what Kongrosian is wondering at this moment, too.’

‘I -- would think he’d want to take his wife and son.’

‘Perhaps not. Maybe that’s the entire point. Have you seen the boy? The offspring? Do you know about the Jenner area and what’s happened, there?’

‘Yes,’ she said tightly.

‘Then you understand.’

They were both silent.

Ian Duncan was just seating himself in the comfortable leather-covered chair across from Dr Egon Superb when the squad of NP men burst into the office.

‘You’ll have to disburse your healing a little later,’ the young, sharp-chinned NP squad leader said as he briefly showed Dr Superb his credentials. ‘Richard Kongrosian has disappeared from Franklin Aimes and we are trying to locate him. Has he contacted you?’

‘Not since leaving the hospital,’ Dr Superb said. ‘He called me earlier while he was still -- ‘

‘We know about that.’ The NP man eyed Superb. ‘What do you think are the chances that Kongrosian has joined the Sons of Job?’

Superb said at once, ‘None whatsoever.’

‘All right.’ The NP man noted that. ‘In your opinion, is there any chance he might have approached the Loony Luke people? Emigrated, or be attempting to emigrate, by means of a jalopy?’

After a long pause Dr Superb said, ‘I think the chances are excellent. He needs -- seeks perpetually -- isolation.’

The NP leader closed his notebook, turned to his squad and said, ‘Then that’s it. The lots will have to be closed.’

Into his portable corn-system he said, ‘Dr Superb concurs with the lot idea but not with the Sons of Job. I think we should go along with him; the doctor seems to be certain. Check at once in the San Francisco area, see if a lot has shown up there. Thanks.’ He rang off, then said to Dr Superb, ‘We appreciate your help. If he does contact you, notify us.’ He laid his card on Dr Superb’s desk.

‘Don’t -- be rough on him,’ Dr Superb said. ‘If you do find him. He’s very, very ill.’

The NP man glanced at him, smiled slightly, and then the squad of them left the office; the door shut after them. Ian Duncan and Dr Superb were again alone.

In a peculiar, hoarse voice Ian Duncan said, ‘I’ll have to consult with you some other time.’ He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Goodbye.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Dr Superb said, also rising.

‘I’ve got to go.’

Ian Duncan plucked at the door, managed to open it, disappeared; the door slammed.

Strange, Dr Superb thought. The man -- Duncan, was it? -- didn’t even have an opportunity to begin discussing his problem with me. Why did the appearance of the NP upset him so? Pondering, but finding no answer, Dr Superb reseated himself and buzzed Amanda Conners to send in the next patient; a whole waiting room full of them waited outside, the men surreptitiously (and many of the women, too) watching Amanda and every move she made.

‘Yes, doctor,’ Amanda’s sweet voice came, cheering up Dr Superb more than a little.

As soon as he was out of the doctor’s office Ian Duncan searched frantically for an auto-cab. Al was here in San Francisco; he knew that. Al had given him a schedule of the Number Three Lot’s pattern of appearances. They would get Al. It was the end of Duncan & Miller, Classic Jugs.

A sleek, modern auto-cab called to him, ‘KinIhelpya, fella?’

‘Yes,’ Ian Duncan gasped, and started out into traffic to meet it.

This gives me a chance, he said to himself as the auto-cab streaked for the destination he had given it. But they’ll get there first. Or will they? The police would have to comb virtually the entire city, and block by block; whereas he knew and was heading for, the exact spot where Lot Number Three could be found. So perhaps he had a chance -- a slim one -- after all.

If they get you, Al, he said to himself, it’s the end of me, too.

I can’t go on alone. I’ll join Goltz or die, something dreadful like that. It doesn’t matter what.

The auto-cab hurtled across town, on its way to Loony Luke’s Jalopy Jungle Number Three.

11

Nat Flieger wondered, idly, if the chuppers had any ethnic music. EME was, in its impartial way, always interested. But still, that was not their task, here; ahead now lay the home of Richard Kongrosian, a pale green wooden frame building, three storey, with -- incredibly -- an ancient, brown, untrimmed, ragged palm tree growing in the front yard.

‘We’ve arrived.’ Molly murmured.

The antique auto-cab slowed, gave forth a grating, indecisive racket, and then shut itself entirely off. It coasted to a stop and then there was silence. Nat listened to the far-off wind moving through the trees, and the faint spattering rhythm of the mist-like rain as it fell everywhere, on the cab and the foliage, the unkempt old wooden house with its tarpapered sun deck and many small, square windows, several of which were broken.

Jim Planck lit a Corina corona and said, ‘No signs of life.’

It was true. So evidently Goltz had been correct.

‘I think,’ Molly said presently, ‘we’ve come on a wild goose chase.’ She opened the door of the auto-cab and hopped gingerly out. The soil, under her feet, sank squashily. She made a face.

‘The chuppers,’ Nat said. ‘We can always record the music of the chuppers. If they have any.’ He too, climbed out; he stood beside Molly and they both gazed at the big old house, neither of them speaking.

It was a melancholy scene; no doubt of that. Hands in his pockets, Nat walked towards the house. He came up on to a gravel path which passed between elderly fuchsia and camellia bushes. Presently Molly followed. Jim Planck remained in the car.

‘Let’s get it over with and then let’s get out of here,’ Molly said, and shivered, terribly cold in her bright cotton blouse and shorts.

Nat put his arm around her.

‘What’s that for?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing in particular. I just felt fond of you, all of a sudden. I’d be fond of anything, right now, that wasn’t damp and squishy.’ He hugged her briefly. ‘Don’t I make you feel a little better?’

‘No.’ Molly said. ‘Or maybe yes; I don’t know.’ She sounded irritable. ‘Go on up on to the porch, for chrissakes, and knock!’ Pulling away from him she gave him a push forward.

Nat ascended the sagging wooden steps, on to the porch, and rang the doorbell.

‘I feel sick,’ Molly said. ‘Why is that?’

‘The humidity.’ Nat found it overwhelming, oppressive; he could hardly breathe. He wondered what the weather would do to the Ganymedean life form which was his recording apparatus; it liked moisture and so perhaps it would flourish, here. Perhaps the Ampek F-a2 could even live here on its own, survive in the rain forest indefinitely. This environment, he realized, is more alien to us than Mars would be. It was a sobering thought Mars and Tijuana ... closer than Jenner and Tijuana. Ecologically speaking.

The door opened. A woman wearing a pale yellow smock faced him, stood blocking the entrance and regarding him quietly, her brown eyes calm but oddly wary.

‘Mrs. Kongrosian?’ he said. Beth Kongrosian was not bad looking. Her hair, tied back with a ribbon, was light brown, long; she might have been in her late twenties or early thirties. In any case she was slender and she stood well. He found himself studying her with respect and interest.

‘You’re from the recording studio?’ Her voice, low, had a toneless quality, a peculiar lack of affect. ‘Mr Dondoldo phoned and said you were on your way. It’s a shame. You can come inside if you want, but Richard isn’t here.’ She held the door wide, then. ‘Richard is in the hospital, down in San Francisco.’

Christ, he thought. What lousy, miserable luck. He turned to Molly and they exchanged glances mutely.

‘Please come in,’ Beth Kongrosian said. ‘Let me fix you coffee or dinner or something before you turn around and start back; it’s such a long way.’

Nat said to Molly, ‘Go back and tell Jim. I’d like to take Mrs Kongrosian up on her offer; I could use a cup of coffee.’

Turning, Molly started back down the steps.

‘You look tired,’ Beth Kongrosian said. ‘Are you Mr Flieger? I wrote the name down; Mr Dondoldo gave it to me. I know Richard would have been glad to record for you, if he were here; that’s why it’s all such a shame.’ She led him into the living room. It was dark and cool, crowded with wicker furniture, but at least dry. ‘A drink,’ she said. ‘What about gin and tonic? Or I have Scotch. What about Scotch on the rocks?’

‘Just coffee,’ Nat said. ‘Thanks.’ He inspected a photograph on the wall; it showed him a scene in which a man swung a small baby on a tall metal swing. ‘Is this your son?’

The woman, however, had gone.

He looked closer. The baby in the photograph had the chupper jaw.

Behind him, Molly and Jim Planck appeared. He waved them over, and they both examined the picture.

‘Music,’ Nat said. ‘I wonder if they have any music.’

‘They can’t sing,’ Molly said. ‘How could they sing if they can’t talk?’ She walked away from the picture and stood with her arms folded, looking through the living room window at the palm tree outside. ‘What an ugly tree.’ She turned to Nat. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that there’s room in the world for life of every kind.’

Jim Planck said quietly, ‘I agree.’

Returning to the living room, Beth Kongrosian said to Jim Planck and Molly, ‘What would you two like? Coffee? A drink? Something to eat?’

They conferred.

At his office in the Administration Building of Karp u. Sohnen Werke, Detroit Branch, Vince Strikerock received a phone call from his wife -- or rather his ex-wife -- Julie. Now Julie Applequist again, as she had been when he first met her. Looking lovely but worried and wildly distracted, Julie said, ‘Vince, that goddam brother of yours he’s gone.’ Wide-eyed, she gazed at him beseechingly. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

He said in a deliberate, calming voice, ‘Gone where, Julie?’

‘I think -- ‘ She choked over the words. ‘Vince, he left me to emigrate; we talked about emigrating and I didn’t want to, and I know he’s gone ahead alone. He was determined to; I realize that now. I just didn’t take it seriously enough.’ Tears filled her eyes.

Behind Vince, his superior appeared. ‘Herr Anton Karp wants to see you in Suite Four. As soon as possible.’ He glared at the screen, recognizing this as a personal call.

‘Julie,’ Vince said clumsily, ‘I have to get off the line.’

‘Okay,’ she said, nodding. ‘But do something for me. Find Chic. Won’t you please? I’ll never ask you for anything else again. I promise. I just have to have him back.’

I knew it wouldn’t work out between you two, Vince said to himself. He experienced grim relish. Too bad, dear, he thought. Tough! You made a mistake; I know Chic and I know that women like you petrify him. You scared him into running, and he’ll never stop or look back, now that he’s begun. Because it’s a one-way trip.

Aloud, he said, ‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘Thanks, Vince,’ she breathed tearfully. ‘Even if I don’t actively love you any more I still -- ‘

‘Goodbye,’ he said, and rang off.

A moment later he was ascending by elevator to Suite Four.

As soon as Anton Karp spied him Karp said, ‘Herr Strikerock, I understand that your brother is employed by a miserably tiny firm by the name of Frauenzimmer Associates. Is that correct?’ Karp’s heavy, sombre face was twisted with tension.

‘Yes,’ Vince said slowly, with great caution. ‘But -- ‘ He hesitated. Obviously if Chic was emigrating he would be leaving his job; he could hardly take it with him.

What did Karp want? Better be on the safe side and not say anything unnecessary. ‘But, um ... ‘

Karp said, ‘Can he get you in there?’

Blinking, Vince said, ‘Y-you mean on the premises? As a visitor? Or do you mean -- ‘ He could feel apprehension mounting inside him as the cold blue eyes of the middleaged German ersatz industrialist bored into him. ‘I don’t quite understand, Herr Karp,’ he mumbled.

‘Today,’ Karp said in a brisk, harsh staccato, ‘the government let the simulacrum contract to Herr Frauenzimmer. We have studied the situation and our response is dictated by circumstances themselves. Because of this order, Frauenzimmer will expand; he will take on new employees. I want you, through your brother, to go to work for them, as soon as you can arrange it. Possibly today.’

Vince stared at him.

‘What’s the matter?’ Karp said.

‘I’m -- surprised,’ Vince managed to say.

‘As soon as Frauenzimmer’s taken you on, inform me direct; don’t talk to anyone else but me.’ Karp paced about the large carpeted room, scratching his nose vigorously.

‘We’ll tell you what to do next. That’s all for now, Herr Strikerock.’

‘Does it matter what I do there?’ Vince asked weakly. ‘I mean, is it important exactly what my job is?’

‘No,’ Karp said.

Vince left the suite; the door at once slid shut after him.

He stood alone in the corridor, trying to reassemble his scattered, disorganized faculties. My god, he thought. They want me to throw my sabots into Frauenzimmer’s assembly line; I know it. Sabotage or spying, one or the other; anyhow something illegal, something that’ll bring the NP down on me -- me, not the Karps.

My own brother’s outfit, too, he said to himself.

He felt utterly impotent. They could make him do anything they wanted; all the Karps had to do was lift their little finger.

And I’ll give in, he realized.

He returned to his own office, shakily seated himself with the door shut; alone, he sat silently at his desk, smoking an ersatz-tobacco cigar and pondering. His hands, he discovered, were numb.

I’ve got to get out of here, he told himself. I’m not going to be a petty, minuscule, cipher-type minion for the Karp Werke -- it’ll kill me.

He crushed his non-tobacco cigar out.

Where can I go? He asked himself.

Where? I need help.

Who can I get it from? There was that doctor. That he and Chic had been going to see.

Picking up the phone he signalled Karp’s switchboard operator. ‘Get me Dr Egon Superb,’ he instructed her, ‘that one analyst that’s left.’

After that he sat miserably at his desk, the phone against his ear. Waiting.

Nicole Thibodeaux thought, I’ve got too much to do. I’m attempting to conduct delicate, tricky negotiations with Hermann Goering, I’ve instructed Garth McRae to let the new der Alte contract to a small firm and not to Karp, I have to decide what to do if Richard Kongrosian is ever found again, there’s the McPhearson Act and that last analyst, Dr Superb, and now this. Now the NP’s hasty decision -- made without even attempting to consult me or notify me in advance -- to move in on Loony Luke’s jalopy lots in dead earnest.

Unhappily, she studied the police order which had gone out to every NP unit throughout the USEA.

This isn’t in our interest, she decided. I can’t afford to attack Luke because I simply can’t get at him. We’ll only look absurd.

And -- we’ll look like a totalitarian society. Kept in existence only by our enormous military and police establishments.

Glancing up swiftly at Wilder Pembroke, Nicole said, ‘Have you actually found the lot, yet? The one in San Francisco where you can imagine -- merely imagine -- Richard is?’

‘No. We haven’t found it yet.’ Pembroke mopped his forehead nervously; quite clearly he was under heavy strain.

‘If there had been time of course I would have consulted you. But once he takes off for Mars -- ‘

‘Better to lose him than to move prematurely against Luke!’ She had a good deal of respect for Luke; she had known him, and his operations, for a good long time. She had seen him easily evade the City Police.

‘I have an interesting report from the Karp Werke.’ Obviously Pembroke was now desperately trying to switch the topic under discussion. ‘They’ve decided to penetrate the Frauenzimmer organization in order to -- ‘

‘Later.’ Nicole scowled at him. ‘You know now you’ve made a mistake. Really, down underneath, I enjoy those jalopy jungles; they’re amusing. You simply can’t fathom that; you’ve got a cop’s mind. Call your San Francisco unit and tell them to release the lot if they’ve found it. And if they haven’t found it, tell them to give up. Bring them back in and forget about it; when the time arrives to proceed against Luke I’ll tell you.’

‘Harold Slezak agreed -- ‘

‘Slezak doesn’t make policy. I’m surprised you didn’t get Rudi Kalbfleisch’s approval on this. That would have been even more like you NP people. I really don’t like you, I find you unsavoury.’ She stared at him until he shrank back.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘Say something.’

With dignity, Pembroke said, ‘They haven’t found the lot, so no harm has been done.’ He flicked on his com system.

‘Give up on the lots,’ he said into it. At this moment he did not look very imposing; he was still perspiring freely.

‘Forget the whole damn thing. Yes, that’s right.’ He clicked the system off and raised his head to face Nicole.

‘You should be busted,’ Nicole said.

‘Anything else, Mrs Thibodeaux?’ Pembroke’s voice was wooden.

‘No. Scram.’

Pembroke with measured, stiff steps, departed.

Looking at her wristwatch, Nicole saw that the time was eight P.M. And what had been planned for this evening? Shortly she would be going on TV with another Visit to the White House, the seventy-fifth of the year. Had Janet lined up anything and if so had Slezak managed to bumble through to an adequate schedule? Probably not.

She walked through the White House to Janet Raimer’s tidy office. ‘Do you have anything spectacular coming along?’ she demanded.

Rattling her notes, Janet frowned and said. ‘One act I’d call truly astonishing -- a jug act. Classical. Duncan & Miller; I watched them at The Abraham Lincoln and they’re terrific.’ She smiled hopefully.

Nicole groaned.

‘They really are quite good.’ Janet’s voice was insistent, now. Commanding. ‘It’s relaxing: I’d like you to please give it a try. That’s either for tonight or tomorrow, I’m not certain which Slezak scheduled it for.’

‘Jug acts,’ Nicole said. ‘We’ve gone from Richard Kongrosian to that. I’m beginning to think we should let Bertold Goltz take over. And to think that in the Days of Barbarism they had Kirsten Flagstad to entertain them.’

‘Maybe things will pick up when the next der Alte takes office,’ Janet said.

Regarding her keenly, Nicole said, ‘How is it that you know about that?’

‘Everybody in the White House is talking about it. Anyhow,’ Janet Raimer bristled, ‘I’m a Ge.’

‘How wonderful,’ Nicole said sardonically. ‘Then you must lead a truly delightful life.’

‘May I ask what this next der Alte will be like?’

‘Old,’ Nicole said. Old and tired, she thought to herself. A worn-out stringbean, stiff and formal, full of moralizing speeches; a real leader type who can drum obedience into the Be masses. Who can keep the system creaking along a while longer. And, according to the von Lessinger technicians he will be the final der Alte.

At least, most likely.

And they are not certain quite why. We seem to have a chance but it is a small one. Time, and the dialectic forces of history are on the side of -- the worst creature possible. That vulgar buttinski, Bertold Goltz.

However, the future was not fixed and there was always room for the unexpected, the improbable; everyone who had handled von Lessinger equipment understood that ... time travel was still merely an art, not an exact science.

‘He will be called,’ Nicole said, ‘Dieter Hogben.’

Janet giggled. ‘Oh no, not actually “Dieter Hogben”, or is it “Hogbein”? What in the world are you trying to achieve?’

‘He will be very dignified,’ Nicole said stiffly.

There was a sudden noise behind her; she turned and found herself facing Wilder Pembroke, the NP man. Pembroke looked agitated but pleased. ‘Mrs Thibodeaux, we’ve caught Richard Kongrosian. As Dr Superb predicted, he was at a jalopy jungle preparing to depart for Mars. Shall we bring him to the White House? The San Francisco squad is waiting for instructions; they’re still at the lot.’

‘I’ll go there,’ Nicole decided, on impulse. And ask him, she said to herself, to give up the idea of emigrating. Voluntarily. I know I can persuade him -- we won’t have to resort to blunt force.’

‘He says he’s invisible,’ Pembroke said, as he and Nicole hurried along the White House corridor towards the offtrans field on the roof. ‘The squad however says he appears perfectly visible, at least to them.’

‘Another of his delusions,’ Nicole said. ‘We ought to be able to clear that right up; I’ll tell him he’s visible and that will be that.’

‘And his smell -- ‘

‘Oh, the hell with it,’ Nicole said. ‘I’m tired of his ailments. I’m tired of having him pamper himself in his hypochondriacal obsessions. I’m going to toss the entire power and majesty and authority of the state at him, tell him pointblank that he’s got to give his imaginary diseases up.’

‘I wonder what that will do to him,’ Pembroke mused.

‘He’ll comply, of course,’ Nicole said. ‘He won’t have any choice; that’s the whole point -- I’m not asking him, I’m going to tell him.’

Pembroke glanced at her, then shrugged.

‘We’ve fooled around with this too long,’ Nicole said.

‘Smell or not, invisible or not, Kongrosian is an employee of the White House; he’s got to appear on schedule and perform, or else. He can’t sneak away to Mars or Franklin Aimes or Jenner or anywhere else.’

‘Yes ma’am,’ Pembroke said hollowly, preoccupied with his own convoluted thoughts.

When Ian Duncan reached Jalopy Jungle Number Three in downtown San Francisco he found that he was too late to warn Al. Because the NP had already arrived; he saw parked police cars and grey-clad NP men swarming over the lot.

‘Let me out here,’ he instructed his auto-cab. He was a block away from the lot; that was close enough.

He paid the cab and then set out, warily, on foot. A small knot of curious passers-by with nothing else to do had formed, and Ian Duncan joined them, rubber-necking at the NP men, pretending to wonder why they were there.

‘What’s up?’ the man next to Ian asked him. ‘I thought they weren’t going to crack down on these jalopy lots yet. I thought -- ‘

‘Must be a change in govpol,’ the woman on Ian’s left said.

‘ “Govpol,” ‘ the man echoed, puzzled.

‘A Ge term,’ the woman said haughtily. ‘Government policy.’

‘Oh,’ the man said. He nodded meekly.

Ian said to him, ‘Now you know a Ge term.’

‘That’s so.’ The man perked up. ‘So I do.’

‘I knew a Ge term, once,’ Ian said. He caught sight now of Al, inside the office, seated facing two NP men. Another man was with Al; in fact two other men. One, Ian decided was Richard Kongrosian. The other -- he recognized him; it was a fellow-inhabitant of The Abraham Lincoln Apartments, Mr Chic Strikerock from the top floor. Ian had run into him a number of times at meetings and in the cafeteria.

His brother Vince was currently their identification reader.

‘The term I knew,’ he murmured, ‘was allost.’

‘What’s “allost” mean?” the man beside him asked.

‘All’s lost,’ Ian said.

The term applied right now. Obviously, Al was under arrest; so in fact were Strikerock and Kongrosian, but Ian did not care about them -- he was thinking about Duncan & Miller, Classical Jugs; about the future which had opened up when Al had decided to play once more; the future which now had closed so decisively in their faces. I should have expected this, Ian said to himself. That just before we got to the White House the NP would step in and arrest Al, put an end to it all. It’s the luck that’s tracked me all my life. No reason why it should relent now.

If they’ve got Al, he decided, they might as well have me, too. Pushing through the knot of onlookers, Ian stepped up on to the lot and approached the nearest NP man.

‘Move on,’ the grey-clad NP man said to him, motioning.

‘Take me,’ Ian said. ‘I’m in on it.’

The NP man glared at him. ‘I said get going.’

Ian Duncan kicked the NP man in the groin.

With a curse the NP man groped in his coat, whipped out his pistol. ‘Damn you, you’re under arrest!’ His face had turned green.

‘What’s going on here?’ another NP man, higher in rank, demanded, walking up.

‘This jerk just kicked me in the crotch,’ the first NP man said, holding his gun pointed at Ian Duncan and trying to keep from being ill.

‘You’re under arrest,’ the higher-in-rank NP man informed Ian.

‘I know,’ Ian said, nodding. ‘I want to be. But eventually this tyranny will fall.’

‘What tyranny, you jerk?’ the higher-in-rank NP man said. ‘Obviously you’re confused. You’ll cool off in jail.’

From the office in the centre of the lot Al appeared; he walked over sombrely. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Ian. He did not look very pleased to see him.

Ian said, ‘I’m going along with you and Mr Kongrosian and Chic Strikerock. I’m not going to be left behind. There’s nothing here for me, now.’

Opening his mouth, Al started to say something. But then a government ship, a gleaming silver and yellow offtrans vehicle, appeared overhead and began, with a tremendous series of noises, carefully to land. The NP men at once cleared everyone back; Ian found himself herded along with Al, over to a corner of the lot, still under the dark scrutiny of the first NP man, the one whom he had kicked in the groin, the one who now had it in for him.

The offtrans ship landed and from it stepped a young woman. It was Nicole Thibodeaux. And she was beautiful slim and beautiful. Luke had been wrong or lying. Ian gaped at her, and, beside him, Al grunted in surprise and said under his breath, ‘How come? I’ll be darned; what’s she doing here?’

Accompanied by an NP man of evidently colossal rank, Nicole bobbed across the lot to the office, she hurried up the steps, entered and approached Richard Kongrosian.

‘It’s him she wants,’ Al said in an aside to Ian Duncan. The piano player. That’s what all this is about.’ He got out an Algerian briar pipe and a pouch of Sail tobacco. ‘Can I smoke?’ he asked their NP guard.

‘No,’ the NP man said.

Putting his pipe and tobacco away, Al said wonderingly, ‘Imagine her coming here to Jalopy Jungle Number Three. I never would have figured on that.’ Suddenly he grabbed Ian by the shoulder and squeezed violently. ‘I’m going over to her and introduce myself.’ Before their NP guard could say anything Al started off at a trot; he threaded his way among the parked jalopies and in a split second he had vanished.

The NP man cursed impotently and prodded Ian with his gun. A moment later Al reappeared, at the entrance to the small office building in which Nicole stood talking to Richard Kongrosian. Al opened the door and pushed inside.

Richard Kongrosian was saying as Al opened the office door, ‘But I can’t play for you; I smell too bad! You’re far too close to me -- please, Nicole, dear, stand back, for chrissakes!’ Kongrosian retreated from Nicole, glanced up and saw Al, and said appealingly, ‘Why did you take so long demonstrating that jalopy? Why couldn’t we just have taken right off?’

‘Sorry,’ Al said. To Nicole he said, ‘I’m Al Miller. I operate this lot.’ He held out his hand to her. She ignored the hand, but she was looking his way. ‘Mrs Thibodeaux,’ Al said, ‘let the guy go. Don’t stop him. He has a right to emigrate if he wants. Don’t make people into wooden slaves.’

That was all he could think of to say; it spilled out and then he was silent. His heart laboured. How wrong Luke had been. She was as beautiful as he could possibly imagine; it confirmed everything he had seen before in his original brief one-time glimpse from a distance.

Nicole said to him, ‘This is not your business.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Al said. ‘Literally. This man is my customer.’

Now Chick Strikerock found his voice. ‘Mrs Thibodeaux, it’s an honour, an incredible honour, to -- ‘ His voice wavered; he gulped air, trembled. And he could not continue. He backed away from her, frozen into silence, as if he had been turned off. Al felt disgusted.

‘I’m a sick man,’ Kongrosian mumbled.

‘Bring Richard along,’ Nicole said to the high NP official who stood beside her. ‘We’re returning to the White House.’

To Al she said, ‘Your little lot can remain open; we’re not interested in you one way or another. Some other tune, perhaps ... ‘ She eyed him, without malice, and, as she had said, without interest.

‘Stand aside,’ the high-ranking grey-uniformed NP official ordered Al. ‘We’re going out.’ He shoved past Al, leading Kongrosian by the arm, businesslike and tough.

Nicole followed slightly after the two of them, her hands in the pockets of her long leopard-skin coat. She seemed pensive now, and had become silent. Withdrawn into her moody thoughts.

‘I’m a sick man,’ Kongrosian mumbled once more.

To Nicole, Al said, ‘Can I have your autograph?’ It was an impulse, a whim from the unconscious. Pointless and futile.

‘What?’ She glanced at him, startled. And then she showed her even white teeth in a laugh. ‘My god,’ she said, and then passed on out of the office after the high-ranking NP official and Richard Kongrosian. Al was left behind with Chic Strikerock, who was still trying to find words by which to express himself.

‘I guess I don’t get her autograph,’ Al said to Strikerock.

‘W-what do you think of her?’ Strikerock stammered.

‘Lovely,’ Al said.

‘Yes,’ Strikerock said. ‘It’s incredible; I never expected ever to actually see her, you know, in real life, actually. It’s like a miracle, don’t you agree?’ He crossed to the window to peer after Nicole as she and Kongrosian and the NP bigwig moved towards the parked offtrans ship.

‘It would be easy as hell,’ Al said, ‘to fall in love with that woman.’ He, too, watched her depart. So did everyone else, including the squad of NP men. Far too easy, he thought.

And -- he would be seeing her again, presently he -- and Ian, too -- would be playing their jugs before her. Had that changed? No. Nicole had specifically said that no one was under arrest; she had countermanded the NP’s order. He was free to keep the lot open. The NP would be leaving after all.

Al lit his pipe.

Coming up beside him, Ian Duncan said, ‘Well, Al, she cost you the sale of a jalopy.’ By Nicole’s order, the NP had let him go; he, too, was free.

Al said, ‘Mr Strikerock will still take it. Won’t you, Mr Strikerock?’

After a pause Chic Strikerock said, ‘No, I’ve changed my mind.’

‘The power,’ Al said, ‘of that woman -- ‘ He cursed, loudly and explicitly. And scatologically.

Chic Strikerock said, ‘Thanks anyhow. Maybe I’ll see you some other time. Concerning that.’

‘You’re a fool,’ Al said, ‘to let that woman scare you out of emigrating.’

‘Maybe so,’ Chic agreed, nodding.

Obviously it was hopeless to try to reason with him. Al could see that; so could Ian. Nicole had won another convert and she was not even here to enjoy it; she was not even interested. ‘Back to your job, is it?’ Al said.

‘That’s right.’ Strikerock nodded. Back to the stale routine.’

‘You’ll never make it here to this lot again,’ Al said. ‘This is undoubtedly absolutely the last chance you’ll ever have to break away in your entire life.’

‘Maybe so,’ Chic Strikerock said, nodding morosely. But he did not budge.

‘Good luck,’ Al said bitingly, and shook hands with him, ‘Thanks,’ Chic Strikerock said, with no trace of a smile.

‘Why?’

Al asked him. ‘Can you explain to me why she affected you so?’

‘No, I can’t,’ Strikerock said. ‘I just feel it. I don’t think it. It’s not a logical situation.’

Ian Duncan said to Al, ‘And you felt it, too. I watched you. I saw the expression on your face.’

‘Okay!’ Al said with irritation. ‘So what?’ He walked away from them and stood by himself, smoking his pipe and gazing out the window of the office at the jalopies parked outside.

I wonder, Chic Strikerock wondered, if Maury will take me back. Maybe it’s too late; maybe I burned my bridges too well. At a public phonebooth he dialled Maury Frauenzimmer at the factory. Taking a deep shuddering breath he stood with the receiver pressed to his ear, waiting.

‘Chic!’ Maury Frauenzimmer yelled, when his image appeared. He beamed, expansive and younger-looking with a radiant, triumphant joy that Chic had never witnessed before. ‘Boy, am I glad you finally called! Come on back here, for chrissakes and -- ‘

‘What’s happened?’ Chic said. ‘What’s up, Maury?’

‘I can’t tell you. We got a big order; that’s all I can say over the phone. I’m taking on men right and left. I need you back; I need everybody! This is it, Chic, what we’ve been waiting for all these goddam years!’ Maury seemed almost on the verge of tears. ‘How soon can you get back here?’

Muddled, Chic answered, ‘Very soon. I guess.’

‘Also,’ Maury said, ‘your brother Vince called. Trying to get hold of you. He wants a job. Karp fired him or he quit or something -- anyhow he’s looking everywhere for you. He wants to get on here, situation-wise, alongside of you. And I told him if you recommended him -- ‘

‘Oh sure,’ Chic said absently, ‘Vince is a first-rate ersatz technician. Listen, Maury. What is this order you’ve got?’

A slow, secretive expression appeared on Maury’s wide face. ‘I’ll tell you when you get here; don’t you understand? So hurry!’

Chic said, ‘I was going to emigrate.’

‘Emigrate, shmemigrate. With this you don’t have to, now. We’re set up for life; take my word for it -- you, me, your brother, everybody! I’ll see you.’ Maury abruptly cut the connection at his end; the screen died.

It must be a government contract, Chic said to himself.

And whatever it is, Karp’s lost it. That’s why Vince is out of a job. And that’s why Vince wants to work for Maury; he knows.

We’re now a Ge outfit, Chic said to himself with exultation. We’re at last, long last, on the inside.

Thank god, he thought, that I didn’t emigrate. I drew back just on the brink, just in the nick of time.

Finally luck, he realized, is with me.

This was absolutely the best -- and most decisive -- day of his life. A day, in fact, which he would never forget as long as he lived. Like his boss Maury Frauenzimmer, he was all at once thoroughly, completely happy.

Later on, he was to look back to this day ...

But he did not know that now.

After all, he did not have access to von Lessinger equipment.